


flore novo

by dats__gayyy



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Slow Burn, morrigan has softened with kieran but is still jaded af, trevelyan is an agent of leliana's, trevelyan is angsty under the surface, ya know i thought why not try a DAI morrigan romance?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:46:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dats__gayyy/pseuds/dats__gayyy
Summary: The Inquisition is not what Morrigan expects.
Relationships: Morrigan/Female Mage Trevelyan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

The Inquisition is not as Morrigan expects.

Of course, she has heard all sorts of rumors. The Empress has a vast network of spies, after all, and she listens in with feigned disinterest when they report back. A ragtag group of faithful, stitched together by the hand of someone Morrigan once thought too delicate to do any such thing.

They close the Breach with the aid of the Templars, and the whispers abound. Perhaps this Inquisition is a force to be considered, after all? Morrigan’s brows raise.

But then Haven falls. The Inquisition limps along, wounded deeply. Mortally, many predict. Morrigan wraps herself in her own concerns, thrilling the Empress with teaching of the Occult, keeping Kieran safe and as inconspicuous as she can. 

She survives, as do they. 

The Empress deems their paths to cross: she confides that she plans to invite the Inquisitor to Halamshiral. It is defensive, Morigan thinks; there will be wolves inside Celene’s den, and so she invites a dog to join her pack. She wonders, though, how sharp are the fangs of this new beast, and on whom will they close?

The Inquisition sends spies as the weeks dwindle. How prudent, Morrigan thinks, refusing to be impressed at the way these agents integrate seamlessly into the Winter Palace. There’s an elven servant in the kitchen who watches all with sharp eyes but does not speak unless spoken to. A dwarf in the stables full of boisterous cheer as he braids fanciful ribbons into the horses manes (and then brushes them out when Celene decides she dislikes the colors). 

And then the mage. The Empress, always fascinated by pretty things, takes interest right away. Morrigan, whose position in court is delicate and entirely predicated on Celene’s fancy, circles in on the newcomer. 

She has come on behalf of her family, nobility of Ostwick, with the wish to help the Empress with preparations, should she have her?

Celene smiles at that, the barest hint of rosy color in her cheeks. “Most certainly I will,” she agrees with a coy little smile. Morrigan, disguised as a raven perched in the shrubbery of the surrounding garden, recognizes the predatory glint that flashes lightning-quick in that gaze.

Lady Trevelyan settles in with a rapidity that is alarming. She is demure, which of course endears her to the preening nobility of the Palace, and a playful wit that tiptoes out on much anticipated occasion. If that were not enough, her high cheekbones, dark blonde braid that persistently has a few stray locks that frame her face  _ just  _ so, and fawn-brown eyes complete the charm. 

Morrigan watches her closely.

Kieran is the first to meet her, much to the witch’s chagrin. He is playing in the courtyard in the dwindling hours of the evening, having climbed to sit atop the trellis in order to watch the stars glitter into being as night descends. The Palace’s activity has drawn itself inwards.

Lady Trevelyan walks out, Kieran tells her later, alone and preoccupied with a piece of parchment in hand. She stalls as she reads, biting her bottom lip absent-mindedly. And then, curiously, she crumples the paper and tosses it in the fountain.

“You’re supposed to throw a coin,” Kieran says from his perch.

Lady Trevelyan startles, shoulders stiffening. She glances around, and when her eyes fall on the boy, she exhales. “I’m afraid I haven’t any, Lord Kieran.” She shrugs a shoulder, smiling gently. “I’m hoping the fountain will take my wish, all the same.”

No one has called him ‘lord’ before. Kieran tilts his head, mulling the words over in his way. And then he jumps down.

The mages gaze grows wide and worried when he lands on the stone tiles. Kieran stands with a wince that is perfunctory. His knee stings, the fabric of his pants darkening with a trickle of blood. The leg doesn’t seem to want to straighten all the way. “Mother has the same wish. But your eyes are closed. Her eyes will be opened at the fountain.”

Lady Trevelyan’s brows knit together. She hesitates the briefest of moments, bewildered, and then crosses over to kneel by his side. “Are - are you hurt?”

Kieran looks down at his knee. It throbs, radiating an unpleasant heat. “Yes.”

Lady Trevelyan carefully prods the wound, assessing. She closes her eyes, and a thrum of emerald magic envelops her fingertips, and he watches as it swirls to encompass her palm. She places it on his knee, and the relief is immediate. The pain dulls to an ache, and then nothing at all. He flexes his leg experimentally. Besides the rip in his trousers, it’s as if the injury never happened.

Later, in their shared room, Morrigan chides her son for being so reckless. He may be special, but he is flesh and blood even so. And unbidden over the years she’s developed an annoyingly nagging worry over his childish antics. In a better world, Kieran could run and jump and have boyish adventures without that dark fear haunting at every turn; but this is the world she has inherited, and she will keep him safe from it.

Kieran holds out a hand, the damp mess of a note in his small fist. “Do you want to see this, Mother? It’s not her wish.”

Morrigan takes the paper and smooths it out. Much of the ink has run to the point of illegibility. Her golden eyes can make out stray words. Then, at the bottom where the parchment is still dry, she reads the last sentence, written in a familiar scrawl:

_ Beware the black rose. _


	2. Chapter 2

If Lady Trevelyan takes Leliana’s advice, it is only as a challenge. She seeks Morrigan out, which piques the witch’s curiosity but not enough to allow herself to be caught.

In the end, it is the reverse: she stumbles upon the miscreant in the grand library well after midnight.

Morrigan has entered to tend to her own secret affairs, taking the form of a cat as camouflage. The veilfire glints a pale and eerie blue as she slinks along. A faint rustle makes her ears twitch. Halting, she waits. After several breaths, it happens again, and again, in steady rhythm. Bristling, she sidles closer. 

The mage is lying on a bench in a far corner. A thick book is propped on her chest, and slowly she turns the pages as her gaze roves the text. Her face is softened by shadow that flickers in the wake of the lantern overhead, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth absent-mindedly. Her standard braid has been let out, and her golden locks splay like silk behind her. In the late hour, her robes have been forgone for leather trousers and a forest-green tunic, a stylish vest over top. 

She looks at peace, in a way she doesn’t while rubbing elbows with the nobility in the daylight, and something about the sight makes Morrigan’s blood run hot.

Morrigan regains her own form and steps into the light. She makes sure her heels  _ click  _ against the stone, the sound echoing to her satisfaction. 

“Lady Morrigan,” the mage says without looking up, though Morrigan sees her pause. “We meet at last; I was almost afraid you were avoiding me.”

Morrigan huffs. “Then you will be frightened to learn you are correct.” She closes the remaining distance, reaching down to pluck the book from Trevelyan’s (Morrigan tires of titles - there is no use in them in the dark, besides) grasp. The other woman is compliant. “Let us dispense of this cat and mouse game. I know you are a spy.”

Trevelyan’s eyes find hers. She arches a brow, nonplussed. “Empress Celene herself knows I am a spy.”

Not the answer Morrigan was expecting. She parries, reflexively, with an insult. “A poor spy, then. If this is what the Inquisition has to offer, perhaps it is evident why Haven fell.”

Trevelyan stills. Her jaw tightens enough to make the tendons of her neck stand out, which draws the witch’s attention. But when she speaks, it is without trace of any spare emotion. “Much can be learned from the appearances others want you to see.”

Morrigan can practically hear Leliana in those parroted words. Such melodramatic drivel. “And what, I wonder, can I glean from yours?”

Trevelyan smiles thinly. “You’d have me do your work for you?”

“T’was a rhetorical question.” Morrigan rolls her eyes. “You are a Circle mage whose leash has been cut, and so you have come to heel for a new master. Keep your fangs out of my affairs and I shall pay you no heed.” She crosses her arms, book heavy against her chest. “You can relay that to Leliana, as well.” 

A spark of true humor alights in the mage’s gaze. She drums her fingers against her lips, thoughtful. “Hm. It must’ve been the hair that gave me away.” She stands, stretching. “Well met at last, Lady Morrigan. I’ll leave you to your own devices. Though…” She leans closer, tapping the cover of the tome. “I should like to finish this at some point, if you don’t mind.”

With that, the other woman exits. Morrigan’s brow furrows, uncertain exactly what to make of the encounter. Trevelyan is vexing, of that she’s sure, but harmless enough to be curtailed by a firm hand. And the puppetmaster behind it all: whatever Leliana’s playing at seems to be more complex than she’d previously guessed. If she’s so willing to allow her strings to show, then perhaps she’s building a web of influence so brazen as to reach all the way into the heart of the Empire.

Interesting, Morrigan thinks. She inspects the book in her arms, brows jumping.  _ Musings on a Cross-Cultural Theory of Magic, _ replete with pages dog-eared that mark the chapters on lyrium and the Fade.

Interesting indeed.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> careening into this with little idea as to where i'm going, but it's kinda fun to write. my goal is to make Morrigan as gay as i wish she had been in Origins. maybe gayer.


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